


Gallifrey Records: The Acoustic Collaboration

by cereal, gallifreyburning



Series: Gallifrey Records [13]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:49:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose is stranded by a typhoon in Kuala Lumpur. She's surprised to discover the Master is, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gallifrey Records: The Acoustic Collaboration

Rose is stranded in Kuala Lumpur, a typhoon coming in, the airport shut down and every available form of transportation on lockdown. Everybody’s boarding up windows and hunkering down just waiting for the storm to blow through  with their lives on hold. The hotel’s secured - windows barricaded and everything locked up, and when Rose gets to the basement with the other guests as the first howling gusts hit the walls outside, she’s a bit nervous and wishing her mobile would at least pick up a signal so she could text the Doctor and tell him that she’s safe. Surely he’s out of his mind with worry, waiting for her in Tokyo. She’s so preoccupied with her phone, searching searching searching for a signal, that she doesn’t see him until he sits down next to her, black hoodie and rumpled blond hair and a devilishly charming grin on his face. ”Rose Tyler,” the Master says glancing at the phone in her hand. ”Fancy being stranded with you here.” 

Rose is not in the mood for this, not any of it – the storm, the mobile without a signal, the Master, so she ignores him, staring determinedly at her the phone without looking up.

“Speechless?” The Master says. “Can’t say I haven’t had that reaction before, but I certainly didn’t expect it from you.”

She keeps her eyes fixed down and the Master continues.

“You seem like the vocal type,” he says. “Of course, you’d have to be, with the Doctor and his unending need for positive reinforcement and that ridiculous gob of his. Won’t shut up even if you gag him, although there is something to be said for those begging little moans he trots out in those situations.”

Rose runs her thumb over the screen, pressing down hard, and she’s striking back before she can stop herself.

“Sod off,” she says.

“Oh, I  _knew_  you had a mouth on you,” he says. “Tell me more.”

She reels herself back in, turning her phone in her hands, flipping the volume switch back and forth before bringing up the message screen again. The cursor blinks at her from the blank text field, the signal bar still depressingly empty.

The Master leans closer and he catches a glimpse at the address line before she clicks the phone dark.

“Don’t worry about him,” The Master says. “He knows all about handling himself on his own. Although he  _did_  used to like an audience for that. I’m sure he’ll be able to find one. Who’s that cute little nurse that runs around with you? Martha, was it? I’m sure she’d watch.”

He stretches his legs out in front of himself, reclining more fully against the wall behind them.

“She’s a doctor,” Rose says and something in her loosens. Maybe it’d do her good to really get into it with the Master right now. She certainly can’t go outside and yell at the storm, anyway.

“Ooooh, such potential.”

Rose wheels on him, ready for a row, when a young girl approaches them. She can’t be more than 14, but from where they’re sitting on the ground, they both have to look up to see her.

“Oh, hello,” the Master says, and it’s deceptively cheery. If the Master puts one foot, one single  _fingernail_ , out of line with this girl, Rose is going to choke him with his hoodie.

“Hi,” the girl says, in an accent Rose can’t quite place. “Can you play those?”

The girl gestures at their guitars, sitting in small piles of luggage on either side of them.

“I wouldn’t ask, only it’s dead boring down here,” the girl says, shuffling her feet.

Rose’s stomach roils at the thought of playing with the Master,  but at least it might shut him up.

She’s just about to answer when the Master cuts her off.

“Of course we can play them,” he says. “One of us far more proficiently than the other.”

He turns to give Rose a pointed look, but she ignores him.

“Do you want to have a seat?” Rose gestures at the floor in front of them before leaning over to grab her guitar and unsnap the case.

Next to her the Master does the same and she sees the girl motion to a group of kids, giving a thumbs up before taking a seat.

The rest of the group joins them and it looks like some sort of school trip, delayed like everything else because of the storm.

“Any requests?” Rose says, and the Master’s tuning his guitar next to him.

“You pick,” the girl says, a chorus of agreement echoing behind her.

Rose smirks at the Master and begins plucking out the notes to a song from the Doctor’s first solo album after his split with the Master, the one that sold like mad.

The Master rolls his eyes, but picks up the tune, and Rose gets lost in it for just a moment. Wherever she is, playing music always makes her feel at least a bit better.

The song ends, the kids applauding politely, and Rose catches a glimpse of a few with their camera phones out before the Master starts up another song, sneering at her.

It’s one from Madame and the Pompadours and Rose’s fingers fumble on the strings for a second, earning her a triumphant look from the Master.

The camera phones stay out for the rest of the songs and Rose dimly hopes that they’ll have forgotten about the videos by the time the signals come back up.

The hotel staff had warned them that they’d be down here for anywhere between twelve and twenty-four hours, and as the last notes fade from the strings of her guitar, Rose is beginning to wonder how big this basement might be, how she might go about finding the spot furthest away from this one and barricading herself there.

Rose takes her guitar off, begins to pack it away, and the kids moan. “Just a few more?”

Normally, she wouldn’t hesitate; normally, she’d sit and sing half the day, because it’s just as calming and distracting to her as it is for the kids.

She glances at the man in a hoodie next to her — today is miles from normal. And as loud and terrifying as the storm outside is, she has no inclination to sit in the middle of a storm in here, too. Because Rose is certain that any of amount of time she spends with the Master will only end in her giving him a very undignified, very unbecoming, very profane dressing-down. And she’s all-too aware of the camera phones still being pointed in her direction.

“Sorry,” she says. “Have a sore throat, but I can do pictures and autographs for a bit!”

The Master smirks in her direction. “You sound fine to me – pitchy as you always are.” He launches into another song from Madame and the Pompadours, “Burning Up Our Time.” 

Rose rolls her eyes and turns to a few of the kids, taking pen and paper. It’s forty-five minutes before Rose fully extracts herself. Every second, she can feel the Master’s attention on her like a weight, but she isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of thinking she’s running away.

She grabs her guitar and her backpack full of essentials she’d taken from her suite, finds the hotel employee who’s handing out water and grabs a few bottles, then finds an exit. She looks back across the room, sees the Master has cornered one of the hotel managers and is talking animatedly, his face a tight mask of composure. But he seems distracted, certainly isn’t paying attention to Rose at the moment.

She slips through the door, out of the main area of the basement, away from carpet and bright lighting and crowds of people. Into grey concrete hallways, stark fluorescent lighting, and blessed blessed silence. There’s the vague roar of wind and water somewhere above her, but the hubbub of human voices and the unsettling knowledge that the Master was sharing her air, are gone.

Rose walks past a few rooms full of hotel staff — smoking, card games, they actually look like they’re having a decent time. She considers going inside, offering to play a few songs in exchange for asylum from the Master, but decides she’s tired enough to just find a quiet place and settle in for a while.

A few turns, a few hallways, a few doors later, and she’s found a little space. An office, with a sofa and a desk and a plush chair. A hotel this big, this must be the support staff manager’s office or somesuch. At the moment, Rose doesn’t care — all she cares is that it’s empty. It’s sanctuary.

In short order she’s settled. She checks her phone one more time even though she already knows there won’t be any signal, pulls out a bottle of water and a romance novel and slouches down onto the couch.

When the doorknob clicks, turns, she’s so surprised she nearly falls off the couch.

It’s a TV film crew, or the bones of one. A cameraman with a sizable camera on his shoulder and an anchor in a suit rumpled like it got wet in the rain and wasn’t hung to dry properly. She’s seen that sort of botched drying too often with the Doctor and she wishes, not for the first time, that he were here.

The anchor leans in to pick up her book, handing it back to her as he apologizes in an American accent.

“Sorry for startling you, Miss Tyler, just wondering if you had a comment?” He says and gestures at his cameraman to get the camera ready.

A comment on what? Her mind flips through a hundred possibilities, hoping like mad she’s not going to find out the Doctor’s been injured or some other terrible news from a reporter from the States.

“What? A comment on what? What are you doing here?” She winces and double checks that the camera’s not rolling yet. If it’s something minor, her getting mouthy with journalists is going to become the story.

“Two different questions, ma’am,” the camera guy says, cutting off at a glare from his anchor, who finishes the answer.

“We’re in town filming a travel piece,” the bloke says. “Got caught in the storm like everyone else.”

Rose sits up straighter on the couch, squinting at the men.

“And you want a comment on the weather?”

She will never understand the American media.

The anchor laughs, “No, we already told the bureau we weren’t filing our travel piece, _or_ a weather one. We’re much more interested in some footage we just acquired.”

Something in the way his tone turns at the end, right into a slimy thing, makes the hair on Rose’s neck stand up.

“Footage of what? What’s your name?”

The guy’s smile is predatory in response and Rose tenses even further.

“I’m Mike Tompkins,” he says. “And footage of you performing with the Master, of course. Huge news and we’ve got the exclusive! We’ve already started teasing it and the numbers are terrific.”

Rose feels her jaw go slack, blinking numbly a few times before she can answer, but, wait –

“Teasing it? How are you getting a signal in this?”

Mike laughs, a short barking noise that hurts Rose’s ears, “I don’t know what kind of tech they have in merry old England, but our truck can get a signal in almost anything.”

There’s a part of Rose that’s her mum’s daughter through and through, and that part of her is itching to give Mike Tompkins a slap.

“What do you want a comment on? We played a few songs for some kids. Kids whose parents are probably worried about them and who could do with a phone call from your magic truck,” she says.

She’s already trying to imagine the story, and a couple of musicians, even two with tension, doesn’t seem like the stuff of breaking news.

“We want a comment on your affair with the Master,” Mike says.

Rose is on her feet before she can think; she tries to put her media mask in place, the poker-faced expression the Doctor’s so good at, when reporters ask him questions he isn’t happy to hear.

She’s spent hours of practice in front of a mirror, the Doctor giving her pointers:  _No, nope, a little less eyebrow. Keep the corners of your mouth level. Mmm, let’s try a sample question, shall we? ‘Rose Tyler, is it true that you make an adorable ah-ah-AH-OHGODYESDOCTORYES noise when you climax in bed?’ Oi, throwing pillows is definitely not helping you maintain that poker face!_ _Dead giveaway!_

She’s never quite mastered it.

“Not happening. Never did, never will, in any and every tense of the English language, let me emphasize: there is  _nothing_ between me and the Master.”

The red light on the camera is winking at her; she unclenches her fists, rocks back on her heels a little so she doesn’t look like she’s about to leap at the anchor and throttle him with her bare hands. No matter how much she actually wants to.

“We have security footage of the two of you entering an elevator together, and sources that have confirmed seeing you leave the Master’s suite late last night.” Rose opens her mouth to reply, but before she can get a syllable out, he steamrolls on: “There are so many rumors about the reasons you split professionally from the Doctor for your recent solo album, and the solo albums’ mystery guest guitarist, ‘[John Smith](http://allrightfine.tumblr.com/post/25722652679/gallifrey-records-the-solo-album-import).’ Obviously an alias — can you confirm once and for all that John Smith is, in fact, the Master?”

“Let me confirm this, Mike Thompkins,” Rose says, stepping forward. “My solo album had nothing to do with any kind of personal issues between me and the Doctor. Professionally, personally, in every way possible, our relationship is sound as ever. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to wait out the rest of this storm in privacy.”

She snatches her backpack and pushes past the cameraman, out of the office.

“Darling!”

The word echoes down the concrete hallway, followed immediately by the man himself. Arms spread wide, warm grin on his face, the Master strides down the hall toward her. “Lost track of you in the crowd, you disappeared and I was getting worried. Find a bit of solitude, did you?”

“Don’t.” It’s a low hiss, because Rose’s throat is constricting, her face burning in fury. Her finger is extended toward him and she’s got one foot set back.  _Fighting stance,_ her personal trainer calls it.

The Master takes a few more steps, his eyes twinkling, before he ambles to a stop. Arches his eyebrows, his gaze flickering to the hallway behind her, and she knows the camera man’s in the hallway. The back of her neck is prickling hot, her stomach churning full of ice.

“What’s this, then? Are these men bothering you, darling?” The Master tilts his head toward them. “If you’ve been harassing Rose, I’ll bring the full force of my legal team right down on your heads; you’ll be lucky to find a gig reporting weather in Dog’s Piss, North Dakota, once I’m done with you.” His gaze slides back to Rose, his face taking on a soft sort of affection. “Better, sweetheart?”

If he touches her, if he comes any closer, that thing coiling in the base of her spine is going to snap, but he stays still, hovering just outside of striking distance.

She can’t give a single inch on this, if she responds to that, that nickname, even if it’s just to call him a tosser, the footage will be all over before she can figure out the best way to handle everything. And there’s nothing the press like more than getting someone on the defensive.

She breaks wide around the Master, edging awkwardly close to the wall to get by without touching him, and then she’s free, stalking down the hallway.

“Domestic dispute,” the Master’s voice echoes behind her, but she can tell he’s talking to the camera. “Now you understand why that boring sod couldn’t keep hold of her. Too much of a – “

She makes an abrupt turn through a door and the sound of the Master cuts off. Somehow she’s found her way back to the room where the staff are playing cards and as she slams into the space, they all turn to look at her.

“Sorry,” she says, trying to calm her pulse. There’s a pack of cigarettes on the table and the room is already thick with smoke, so when one of the blokes turns to her with wide eyes, picking up the pack from the table and extending it to her, she takes one without thinking.

Several of the men move forward to offer up a light and in a different circumstance she would’ve laughed. She would’ve turned to the Doctor with a smile, and whispered something about how she’s still got it, but the Doctor’s not here, and she bends forward to pull from the flame closest to her.

“Thanks,” she says, holding the smoke in for a moment.

It’s only a few more drags and she’s got a sparking little buzz running through her veins. She’s supposed to have quit, for good this time, but maybe if they get a shot of this, the Doctor and her mum and everyone else will focus on how she’s fallen off that wagon, instead of how she’s apparently having an affair with the Master.

Not that she thinks anybody will believe it, at least anyone close to her, but she’s so frustrated, grasping at whatever she can. There’s no recourse here, stuck in this hotel, unable to give the Doctor a proper snog and put these bloody rumors to rest.

(She shoves down the voice that implies that they’d spin that, too, and Rose Tyler checking into rehab for sex addiction sounds like another headline.)

The staff have turned back to their card game, apparently already uninterested in her, and she wishes that everyone’s attention was so fleeting. She’s just about finished her cigarette and is assessing the various options in the room – doors on either side, a Hoover, a roll of carpeting – when the Master saunters into the room.

She tries not to look alarmed, but her eyes dart around behind him, checking for the camera crew.

“They’ve gone to file their story,” the Master says, plucking the cigarette from her hand and finishing the last drag with a filthy look. He drops it the floor, grinding it into the carpeting and narrowing his eyes at the employees when they try to protest.

“You mean the complete load of bollocks you fed them?” Rose says.

“Oh, I didn’t feed anyone anything,” he says, his tone a lazy drawl, like he’s not in any hurry to sort this out. “They were already there, I just made it more colorful. Besides, haven’t you heard? All press is good press.”

“Is that why you spent millions in court a few years ago, fighting those rumors that it wasn’t really you singing on your albums? That you’d hired someone because your voice was shot to hell from — what was it they called it? ‘Hard living’?” Rose looks the Master up and down, then smirks. “Can’t imagine where they got that idea from — hard living, I mean – it isn’t as though you look a day over fifty-five.”

There’s a spark in his eyes, some weird form of predatory excitement. He grins. “You  _do_  have quite a history with older men, don’t you? That  _does_  make me your type.”

The Master swivels toward Rose, one shoulder resting against the wall, his gaze pinning her. It’s bizarre, because she  _hates_ this man, her feelings about him are quite clear. Yet when his attention fixes on her like this, when he stares at her like she’s a glittering and fascinating and delectable piece of prey, a miniscule  _something_  flutters in the pit of her stomach. Something more than loathing; something she’d never admit aloud and certainly wouldn’t ever act on. But  _something_ nonetheless.

It’s the same  _something_ she felt about Jimmy Stone, so very very long ago.

Rose retorts, “And  _you_  have a thing for young blondes, don’t you? Grasping for youth, trying to distract yourself from the fact that you’re getting older and nothing will ever reverse that. How is dear Lucy?”

“Safe and sound in Paris, spending herself into a shopping coma, I’d imagine. She’ll have found herself a nice garçon by now, to carry her bags and see to her  _every_  little … need.” His grin widens. “Lucy is always so thoughtful, she takes pictures for me — sends them along while we’re apart. It’s my favorite part of traveling, getting those little care packages from my wife. Kuala Lumpur has been more business than pleasure, this time around, and I haven’t had any time to send any of my own pictorial care packages back to her. I suppose that makes me a bad husband.”

The way the Master’s looking at her is practically hypnotic — Rose suddenly has an idea of what a rabbit feels like when it’s staring at a fox. If she was a different person, she might let herself be pulled along, might actually entertain some of the ideas he’s throwing her way. Make substance of the rumors the Master’s so gleefully spreading.

But Rose has always been more of a wolf than a rabbit. And a wolf facing a fox, that’s an entirely different proposition. An idea has struck her; she can hear the Doctor’s voice in her head crowing  _Rose Tyler, you’re brilliant!_

Which is, of course, true.

She turns to face him, lips spreading into a grin. “Mmm, I don’t think anyone would argue that you are the most terrible husband in the universe. These garçons you pick up on your business trips, they always call you ‘Master,’ do they?”

“My sweet girl,  _everyone_  calls me Master,” he replies, each word heavy with emphasis.

Rose arches an eyebrow at him. “Where did you say that news crew had got off to? I have a statement to make.”

It’s quick work to locate them, the kids from earlier, apparently feeling guilty about forking over their performance footage, give up their location easily.

Mike Tompkins and his nameless camera man have taken up in a room just off the main one. They’ve got a laptop set up and are apparently re-editing together their story, replaying Rose stalking down the hallway back and forth in slow motion.

“I’ll give you a statement,” she says and they both swivel to look at her.

“We weren’t ready to announce this yet, because the ink’s not even dry on some of the paperwork, but you’ve forced my hand,” she says, pausing to make sure they’re following along. “It’s a little embarrassing, it all coming out like this, and I’d hate to think of the damage we’ve done by not just acknowledging it properly, but nothing to be done for it now. I’m ready to talk about it.”

Mike’s got a gleam in his eye and Rose watches as the story she’s hinted at tracks across his face. He checks his watch and jumps from his chair, straightening his tie.

“Get the camera on, we’ll do it live,” he says, explaining the situation to the main office in his in-ear before turning back to her. “Do you want to go and get the Master? Shouldn’t he be with you?”

Rose shrugs, “This is just some formalities that need cleaning up, it’s the future I need him around for.”

Mike’s practically salivating and a few moments later the camera blinks red and he’s introducing the story.

When she’s done speaking, the Master’s been firmly established as the  _master_  of ceremonies for this year’s re-launch of the Children in Need special. A project he’d approached Rose about months earlier, because of her spot on the charity’s board.

She’s told of how he’d pleaded to bring the program back from hiatus, following a two-year-long break due to low numbers.

She’s apologized for the secrecy and to the other board members, for making the announcement prematurely, and, looking straight into the camera, she’d said how sorry she was for all the headaches this was going to cause, but that the Master had agreed to fund all production costs himself.

It’s a new version of an old trick – using the press to her advantage, and there’s no way the Master can back down now, not with all the groundwork already laid by the earlier footage.

There are loose ends hanging about, but either they’ll get sorted and they’ll have themselves a charity show with the Master, or he’ll bow out, further damaging his reputation, and she’ll take over with the Doctor. She’s certain he would be more than ready to do it, can already practically see him running around the stage, giving Pudsey a cuddle and, in fact, she’s a little sorry this didn’t occur to her earlier.

Mike looks furious as he gives the story wrap up into the camera, and she sneaks away before he’s done.

The storm blows through in twelve hours instead of twenty-four, and Rose retreats back to that deserted office, sleeps through the bulk of it. By the time she wakes up, her phone’s finally got a signal again.

Her screen lights up with message notifications; she skips straight to the ones from the Doctor. She’d been able to let him know she wouldn’t make her flight, but there wasn’t time enough to reassure him that the hotel was secure before they were herded into the basement. 

**I TRIED EVERYTHING IN THE MINIBAR. IT WAS ALL RUBBISH.**

**WHEN I’M A CONTESTANT ON A JAPANESE GAMESHOW, I WANT TO MAKE SURE IT’S THE ONE WHERE THEY PLAY HUMAN TETRIS. I’D BE BRILLIANT AS THE LONG STRAIGHT PIECE.**

**YOU DIDN’T PACK WELLIES. DON’T LET YOUR SOCKS GET WET.**

**THIS BED IS TOO COLD AND THE PILLOW IS TOO SOFT.**

**IMPORTANT FACT: TAMPERING WITH THE LIGHT FIXTURE IN THE HOTEL BATHROOM CAN PRODUCE SMOKE, WHICH MIGHT SET OFF A FIRE ALARM. MET SOME NEW FRIENDS ON THE SIDEWALK WHILE WE WAITED FOR THE FIRE BRIGADE TO CLEAR THE BUILDING.**

**PLEASE BE OKAY.**

**ROSE?**

It takes her a few tries to get a signal through, but when she does, the other end doesn’t even finish one ring before he picks up. “Rose!” The utter relief in his voice, the way the word almost catches in the back of his throat, makes her toes curl inside her trainers. 

“I’m okay, the worst of the storm’s over. I’m catching a flight out today. Didn't even get damp, the wind and rain weren't as bad as they forecast.”

“It’s on the news over here,” he says. “I didn’t know he was there. In Kuala Lumpur, I mean.”

“Me neither,” Rose replies with a sigh. “It’s been a long day.”

“I’ll be at the airport, the minute you get in.” She closes her eyes and she can almost feel his arms around her, feel his body as she collapses against him. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. I love you.”

She can almost hear his smile. “Love you, too.”

“I should go, keep the line clear for emergency services. See you soon.”

A few hours later, Rose is in front of the hotel, watching a driver load her bags into the trunk of a taxi. She’s about to slip into the backseat when a hand catches her elbow. 

The Master leans in, teeth bared in a smile. “That was clever, Rose. You’re not half as vapid as you look.”

Shaking her arm free, she says, “Yeah, well, like you said — all press is good press, right?” 

Rose gets into the back of the taxi without looking at him again. The driver opens his own door, sits down, and the Master knocks on her window. She stares up at him, lips pursed and eyebrows arched, and leaves the glass closed. 

His voice is muffled but audible: “I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to seeing both you and the Doctor again at the Children in Need taping. So much bonding time! It’ll be just like Cleveland, only we’ll get to share a stage for _hours_ instead of minutes. You’re on the charity board, I hear. Do you suppose, with a sizeable enough donation, I might get on the board, too? Then we’d _really_ get to know each other, what with all those long hours in planning meetings. Mmm, now _that_ would be fodder for some press, wouldn’t it.” He winks at her. “I’ll have my people look into it, shall I?”

She smiles, baring her teeth right back at him. “You do that, and I’ll touch base with the other members of the board about your application. I think you might know some of them — the Doctor, Donna Noble, Martha Jones — I’m sure we’ll all be thrilled to see your CV cross the conference table. Have a safe flight back to Paris, and do say hello to Lucy for me, won’t you?”

Before the Master can reply, Rose taps the partition and the taxi pulls away from the curb. As he recedes in the rear-view mirror -- black hoodie and blond hair shrinking by the second -- the tension that's been in her shoulders since the day before finally begins to dissolve. She slumps into her seat and closes her eyes and begins to count the minutes until she'll see the Doctor again.


End file.
